Skip to main content

CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CONE


 

Chocolate Ice Cream Cone...


Mimi. That’s what I called my grandmother, my mama’s mama. God, I miss that woman.


As little children, Mimi would sing to us all the time. There is one song in particular that has been sang from generation to generation in our family. Chocolate Ice Cream Cone. 


It’s a cute song with a catchy little tune the kids always love. At every family gathering we would get her to sing it and we would all sing it with her or take turns singing it ourselves.


I have grandchildren of my own, now and everyone of them can sing this song word for word. My grandchildren never knew their great, great grandmother personally, however; I feel that they have a connection to her through this song.


As long as I am living, every grandchild, great grandchild and great,  great grandchild of mine will know this song if I have to teach it to them myself. It has become our family legacy.



My mama said if I’d be good she’d send me to the store.


She said she’d make some gingerbread if I would sweep the floor.


She said if I would make my bed and mind the telephone she would send me out to get a chocolate ice cream cone. 


And so I did the things she said and then she made some gingerbread.


Then I went out… Just me alone and got my chocolate ice cream cone. 


While coming home I stumped my toe upon a great big stone.


Need I tell you that I dropped my chocolate ice cream cone?


A little puppy came along and took a great big lick, so I hit that mean old dog with just a little stick.


Then he bit me where I sit down and he chased me all over town. And now I’m lost I can’t find my home… And it’s all because of that chocolate, chocolate, chooooooocolate ice cream cone. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

✨ The Rooms That Remember✨

I have stood through many winters, but Christmas has always been my favorite season—because that’s when I came alive. I remember the 1970s first, when the walls were young and so were you. Three sisters, one brother, Mom, Dad, and Grandmother—all of you packed inside me like laughter in a gift box waiting to burst open. You didn’t have much, not in the way the world measures things, but my floors never felt poor. They felt rich with excitement. On Christmas Eve you children would run circles around me, whispering plans to catch Santa Claus in the act. I watched you wiggle in your blankets, wide-eyed, too excited to sleep. I could almost feel your heartbeat in the quiet hours before dawn. And then—morning. Daylight barely breaking through the curtains before little footsteps raced across my boards. Stockings filled with candy and fruit, gifts being ripped open, squeals of joy bouncing off my walls. Wrapping paper flying, giggles echoing, the smell of breakfast drifting in from the kitch...

Mirrored; the Healing in the Hair

  Mirrored; the Healing in the Hair.   Behind the Chair, Through the Fire: Why We Never Walk Away Most people see a hair appointment as a luxury—a routine hour of pampering. But for those of us behind the chair, that chair is a sacred space, and the appointment book is a lifeline. I’ve spent my career navigating a whirlwind of personal trauma that would have leveled most. I’ve survived a fire and a flood. I’ve endured the terror of domestic violence and the fight of my life against cancer. I’ve navigated the complex grief of losing my children’s father and the transitions of three marriages. Through every surgery, every tear, and every disaster, there was one constant: I showed up for my clients. The Silent Toll : A Body in Service. What my clients don't always see is the physical price of that commitment. In this industry, we are our own health hazards. I have stood behind that chair while battling the widespread, invisible fires of fibromyalgia and arthritis.  I’ve work...

Running on Empty (and my husband’s last nerve)

One factual thing about me … I never look at the gas gauge. The only time I think of putting gas in my vehicle is when the gas light and alert goes off. That’s exactly what it’s there for … Just like the alarm clock or timer; a reminder that it’s time to do whatever it is that it needs to be done.    When we go somewhere together, my husband is always asking if there’s gas in my car. (He should rightfully ask, knowing that there’s probably not). He’s warned me numerous times that one day it’s gonna happen; one day I’m gonna ride those fumes home and I’m not gonna have enough time to stop and get gas on the way to my next destination. One day.  So there I was, on a Saturday afternoon, cruising along, singing at top of lungs, arm out the window, bobbing my head back and forth to some questionable 80s pop, completely oblivious to the fact that my car was running on fumes and good intentions. My destination? The nail parlor, about 12 miles away.  Suddenly, I felt a sputt...